I have found myself having many doubts recently. A disease is infecting me from my human maybe, but it is corrupting me. I have no idea why! It baffles me, and it infuriates me. I have been writing today and reading it back to myself, editing here and there, but I quite like it for a first draft. It is raw, but it is pulp, it is meant to be a little rough. The first chapter’s symbology is okay, playing with fire and using words associated with flames and fire multiple times.
“in her ruby red mid-nineties Ford”.
“and when the flames of passion fizzled into embers, they knew it was over”.
“like a piece of furniture from days gone by it is soon aflame”.
And so on, and on. But, is it any good? That is the question I always find myself answering. I do not, I am afraid to say, write for you, dear humans. I write for myself if others enjoy it then great. If they do no, then that is great too. Writing is a personal thing, I think, and you can never please everyone. My most robust, most fierce critic is myself. Whatever you feel you want to say about my writings is nothing compared to what I have thought to myself. Being critical is fine, it is good. It helps. Saying ‘that is shit’, well thanks, but no thanks. Fuck you and then when you are done doing that crawl back up inside your mother, fuck off and never come back.
I liked the section I have just written with the trees, it — I feel — gave it a sense of something bigger yet to come, a story still to unfold.
“The trees hang as he walks through them, the memories of years scattered in the leaves. The stories they could tell, maybe this is one that they will remember, perhaps it is not. Time would tell, as it often does”.
I still like that, it reads well. It fits the narrative I am trying to build. When I look at it in a week or so, I will probably hate it. I have read — once again — the prologue, and at a hefty 4000 plus words, it is longer than I would like. I am finding fault though, doubting if it is worth continuing with. I have been fighting with this for a while, the human infection of corrosiveness, eating away at me. Rusting me, chipping away from the inside out. I have a hunger I cannot satisfy, a thirst I am unable to quench. I want to write, I have the ideas and passion. I am just never happy with what I do write. The more I read, the unhappier I become. The more I write, the more I have to read, then I doubt. Then the doubt creeps in, like damp in the corner of a room. Once you have noticed it, then it is already damaging.
I will continue to write, it is what I love. I will continue to doubt, it is who I am, who I have become. I do not — after all — write for anyone but myself. It is an annoyance, but like many annoyances, it only really, ultimately, annoys me.